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LITTLE did John Hancock know when learning his ABCs in kindergarten that someday his “John Hancock” would retail from $500 for a plain signature to $5,000 were it scratched onto the end of a historical letter. It might cheer Chuck Norris to learn he’s “marketable.” Burbled one dealer gleefully, “I get $3 for him.”

Thanks to our paparazzi culture, black-market autograph rings have sprung up. Soon the Actors Studio will include penmanship in its curriculum.

Possibly I’ve been bitter about autograph hunters because for years the only paper I was ever asked to sign was my marriage certificate. Anyway, nine months ago I returned to television. In my husband’s last years it wasn’t possible to handle both a column and TV. Well, I’m now back on WNBC/Channel 4’s “Sunday Today in New York,” and it ain’t easy.

Like last Sunday morning, around 9 a.m., right after I’m off the air, I’m taking a short walk. Enjoying the brisk autumn temperature. A lady, barreling toward me in the opposite direction, stops, stares, then says: “I know you. I’ve seen you on the show. You’re thinner in person. How come you look fat on television?”

Minutes later I’m again overwhelmed with flattery. The person says: “Seeing you face to face, you’re sort of nice looking. You don’t look that good on the air.” Two more blocks and I’d have ended up on radio.

I’m in a restaurant. Exactly as a foot-long spaghetti strand is slurping its way into my mouth, a man comes up. And stands there as I blot red sauce from my chin. Mustering whatever slim margin of elegance can be mustered at so inglorious a moment, I look up and he says – quote – “I seen you on TV. You got nothing to be ashamed.”

The autograph request is also nice. You’re usually handed some rumpled paper, dirty scrap torn from a brown grocery bag or a corner off a messy Kleenex. And it’s always, “Write ‘For Ethylene.’ That’s my aunt. She loves you.” Never is it for them. Always their grandmother, uncle, best friend in Ohio who collects autographs but who’s aged and infirm and laid up and this will cheer her. I know perfectly well they plan to trade 12 of me for one Elvis scrawl. In pencil, yet. Pretty insulting considering I, at least, know how to spell “Sincerely.”

And the pen they hand you always leaks. Clearly there’s a requirement someplace that to be a bona fide autograph hunter you must own a leaky pen.

So I’m at a gas station. Not dressed. In jeans. No makeup. Not terrifically together. A heap pulls alongside. Looks like a 1938 Hupmobile. In the back a hag. Maybe 250 pounds. Stringy hair. Wearing rags. Few teeth. She peers into my window. Then: “Cindy Adams! I met you years ago.” Stares at me a few minutes, then: “My God, Cindy Adams . . . how did you let yourself get like that?”

I’m happy to be back in front of a camera but it’s hard work. It’s creaming your everything. Creaming parts of me I didn’t even know I had. A dermatologist suggested glycolic lotion for rubbing into what’s called laugh lines. Those are the lines that are laughing even when you’re not. It’s going to sleep with so much gook that you slip out of bed.

And collagen? You can get so pumped that if you fall down you’ll bounce. Or look like Cher‘s lips.

The hairdresser. She says hairspray is not good. This I know. I don’t have to pay $65 for a wash and set to hear that. She says to brush 100 strokes a night. The maintenance is such that I’m thinking bald is not so bad. At least it’s neat.

The makeup lady says to strengthen lashes she advises shmearing with Vaseline. If I did that I couldn’t open my eyes wide enough to find the floss for the teeth, the brush for the hair or the pumice for my soles.

A physiotherapist prescribed butt-tightening exercises to get rid of any valance beneath the cheeks. Sunday 8:15ish in the morning I’m seen only from the neck up. I don’t care what’s hanging beneath those cheeks. If it doesn’t show I ain’t fixing it.

A masseur I met told me to oil my hands and fingers daily so they stay supple. He swears this won’t take extra time because I can do that while tightening my bum. There’s also holding the hands up high to unpuff the veins. There’s also sleeping with gloves so glycerin can drench them.

By the time I get all these props together television itself will probably be as obsolete as the Victrola.